In 1985, my parents had moved to a semi rural area of Sheffield, and a large bungalow, taking with them an old neighbour and family friend who was widowed decades previously. It was a little odd, but look, I had a massive bedroom extension, newly built onto the new family manse, which I only had to share with my brother for a short while... It was massive to a 16 year old kid, measuring around 35x10 feet, meaning that I could do some serious wargaming. You can see it here, but back then it lacked the paved driveway:  5 Josselin Court Now, this meant that I was moving from the area I'd grown up in, to a wholly alien environment, where it transpired, there was one bus into town every hour, instead of every 5 minutes and the resulting journey was 45-60 minutes as opposed to 12 which, I thought was fucking barbaric on a Mad Max level - where I was living 8 feet from a Victorian cemetery.  Did I mention I have had a massive phobia around death and cemeteries since I was 4? Ad...

 Ah Summer... That brief time when one's mind wanders back to simpler times of sea, sex and 3D6. When I say I live and breathe gaming, I genuinely mean it. I go to sleep thinking about figures and I wake up thinking about them, after often dreaming of games. It's an equitable life imdeed, and has always been thus, since those tentative toe-dips into the hobby, so very long ago. The Summer holidays were great. We didn't worry about 'extreme' heat, there was plenty of Kia-Ora on ice in the fridge and my parents had a long and well kept back garden, on which I and similarly mgalomaniacal friend would play vast games of 1st and 2nd ed WHFB from 10AM until 5PM, in an unending war. The size of the garden meant that we could use war machines to full effect, and I remember fondly how we wrote rules for the prolonged death spins of large flying creatures, most memorably resulting in a dying dragon spending 8 turns spiralling around the garden before fortuitously crashing to ...